


Push

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Music, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 19:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to a prompt for some fluffy J/S fic where John makes Sherlock a mix tape and Sherlock hates every last song, but is so delighted by the fact that John thought to do so at all that he can't stop smiling.</p><p>I don't usually write slash, and this is in no way sexually explicit. It is fluffy, though, and sentimental to a very high degree.</p><p>Thank you to the music artists who supplied songs and lyrics, all unknowing, to this sentimental fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Push

John wishes fervently that he never made the damned mix tape. That he had compiled the list on paper, then torn the paper up into tiny pieces, then eaten the pieces. That would have been a great idea, and much better for his digestion that listening to that… that _snort_ which has just now exploded from the Adored Object.

“I think you’ll find, John,” says Sherlock drily, “That you _will_ in fact find me staying out till three. And very possibly ‘trying to chase the devil’, as….” He peers at the handwritten note in the CD cover, “…Emeli Sande so quaintly puts it….”

“Not for money, power or greed, she says,” John attempts to clarify, and immediately regrets it. Sherlock arches a perfectly sardonic eyebrow at him.

“Point taken,” says Sherlock, and then grins hugely. “And this chorus. ’You’ll find him next to me.’ Really, John?”

“Apart from those times you abandon me at a crime scene,” growls John back, “Or disappear for days on end. Look. Forget it. Just…” John thrusts his hand out. “Give it back. Forget it. Forget I…”

Sherlock snatches the CD cover close to his chest and then grabs John’s computer, which contains the disk now playing. “Oh, not for the wide world, John,” and Sherlock’s grin is gleeful and a little manic, “Not until I discover what other musical monstrosities you’ve chosen for me.”

John’s teeth are grinding. “They’re not… Sherlock, it’s a mix tape. It’s meant to be… do you have any idea what this is meant to be?”

Sherlock waves his hand as though that is an answer. Holding the computer and case jealously close, he moves further away. Sande’s ‘Next to Me’ ends and Alex Lloyd’s ‘Amazing’ begins. Sherlock hoots with laughter. John would rather like to die, though smacking Sherlock in the head with a frying pan seems like a good option too.

“Good god, John, this is… appalling!” Sherlock giggles.

John stalks upstairs and slams the door to his room shut. He briefly considers spending an hour cleaning his gun, but fears it will be too much of a temptation.

Why, oh why, has he managed to fall in love with a complete arse?  And why, dear god, _oh why_ did he decide to make a mix tape for him? The kissing and the sex were great but not enough, oh no, because John is an idiot, and therefore John had to record all the _sentiment_ and give it to his boyfriend. Of course Sherlock finds it hilarious.  If John was feeling less prickly and hurt, he might find it hilarious himself. What is he, sixteen?

A voice bellows up the stairs: “Watching the Detectives? Really, John? _Really_? What does it even _mean_?”

John glowers and does not reply. There’s silence for a long time, and John dares hope that Sherlock has given up. The damned tape has only got ten songs on it after all.  John opens his bedroom door a crack and presses his ear to the space.

The giggling continues apace downstairs, interspersed with cutting comments, delivered in a kind of gobsmacked glee.

“John!” Sherlock bellows, and John slams his door shut again, only to have that baritone lift the roof off with: “What is this Machine that accompanies Florence? And what on _Earth_ is this song _about_?”

John refuses to answer.

“John! “’And when they come for you, they’ll be dressed up all in blue’. What the hell is that?”

John sighs, because Mrs Hudson will be hearing every word, and he knows Sherlock will not shut up, so he opens the door and descends half way down the stairs.

“It’s the police. When they come to consult you.”

“And ‘the ocean in our arms’? Is this a reference to my vast knowledge of criminology?”

“Why don’t you just deduce it all yourself, Sherlock.”

“’And when it’s time to pray, they’ll be dressed up all in grey’?”

“Mycroft,” John mutters, “If the government needs you…”

“That’s when we’re really in trouble? But ‘silver in our lungs’? These lyrics are nonsensical.”

“Fine. Yes. They are. Will you stop now?”

“Absolutely not. ‘And when we come back, we’ll be dressed in black’… you and me, I presume. It’s all rather histrionic.”

“Yes. Histrionic. Good. Turn it off.”

“No.”

John sighs and sits on the stairs.  He does not want to hear Sherlock’s reaction to ‘All This and Heaven Too’. He debated whether to leave that one on. Having two songs by the same band seemed like cheating, but he’d felt like both of those songs got to the heart of his heart and Sherlock.

Mostly, right now, he thinks someone should take out Florence and the Machine with a well-placed sniper. And him, too, while they’re at it. It would be a welcome relief. John starts plotting a second mix tape which will express how much he thinks Sherlock is an utter, utter dick.

Sherlock’s response to ‘All This and Heaven Too’ is a subdued ‘Hmm’.  Then he walks to the bottom of the stairs and looks up at John. “Do you actually like all those songs?”

“I used to,” says John bitterly.

“And this mix tape thing… is meant to be… a kind of… musical love letter?”

John grunts.

“It’s dreadful,” says Sherlock, again with the glee and the giggling, “Sentimental, and dear god, this counts as _music_?”

“Sod off.”

“And I’m meant to thank you, and do one in return.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Of course I’ll bother. No-one has ever given me a love letter before. Not even one filled with dire, mawkish songs full of incomprehensible lyrics. Wait there.”

John doesn’t want to wait there, but he does, because he’s thinking about the fact that no-one has ever given Sherlock a mix tape. Part of him thinks, _of course not, because you are a massive wanker, Sherlock_ , and part of him is thinking, _how could no-one have ever given that magnificent bastard a mix tape? I mean, look at him. **Look at him**._

John waits for almost half an hour. He can hear Sherlock murmuring and fiddling about. He can’t hear any music, but Sherlock hums the occasional note. John deduces that Sherlock is wearing John’s earphones. John supposes that the unhygienic sharing of earphones might be a mark of love. He doesn’t feel as grossed out about using them again himself as he thinks he should.

Finally, Sherlock returns with John’s computer, which he hands up to John.

“I have attempted,” says Sherlock, “To fit with the spirit of a mix tape.”

John looks at the folder open on the desktop. It contains only one song, the name of which has been changed to ‘For John’.

“Mix tapes are supposed to have lots of songs,” says John, feeling slightly mollified, but also a bit irritated that there’s only one song that makes Sherlock think of him, and it’s very likely to be something unflattering.

“That’s incredibly inefficient,” says Sherlock, “I only need one song.”

Reluctantly, John double-clicks on the file and braces himself for disappointment.

A delicate, female voice sings:

_Every time I look at you, the world just melts away_

_All my troubles, all my fears, dissolve in your affection_

_You see me at my weakest, but you take me as I am_

_When I fall you offer me a softer place to land_

_You stay the course, you hold the line, you keep it all together_

_You’re the one true thing I know I can believe in_

_You’re all the things that I desire, you save me, you complete me,_

_You’re the one true thing I know I can believe._

The song continues, and John very nearly stops breathing. He is leaning towards the speaker, listening with his whole body now, and staring at Sherlock. Sherlock blinks, holds his gaze, and the glee has been replaced by barely hidden, anxious anticipation.

Lines of the song make sense to John, make sense of Sherlock to John, in new ways.

_I get mad so easy but you give me room to breathe_

_No matter what I say or do, 'cause you're too good to fight about it_

_Even when I have to push just to see how far you'll go_

_You won't stoop down to battle me, you never turn to go_  
  
And John thinks it's a crime that no-one has ever given this man a love letter or a mix tape, and that they call him freak because of his unique brain. They fail to see everything except the surface; they fail to see everything that John has always seen underneath the brashness. Sherlock is right. Practically everyone is an idiot.

Including Sherlock. Including John. But them maybe a little less so than others.

_And love is just the antidote, and nothing else can cure me._

_There are times I can't decide, when I can't tell up from down_

_You make me feel less crazy when otherwise I’d drown_

_But you pick me up and brush me off and tell me I'm okay_

_Sometimes that's just what we need to get us through the day_

_You stay the course, you hold the line, you keep it all together_

_You’re the one true thing I know I can believe in_

_You’re all the things that I desire, you save me, you complete me,_

_You’re the one true thing I know I can believe._

The song ends, and there’s a breathless pause. Sherlock starts to speak. “I know it’s sentimental, but…”

But John has shoved the computer onto a step and practically launched himself down the stairs at Sherlock. They both stagger backwards into the wall, winding Sherlock who hardly has time to catch his breath before John has grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him down to crush their mouths together.

They never make it to a bedroom, and they learn that sex on the stairs is not great for your back, but subsequent sex in the shower (and against the hallway wall, and again on John’s writing desk, and once more on the sheepskin rug) is all kinds of brilliant.


End file.
